Tales from the Birdcage
by glucoseintolerant
Summary: She consumes ink and the fledgeling ideas that dance at her fingertips, hoping to cure her boredom. And as intricate sprites and creatures skate upon the canvas of her mind, she makes it seem obvious that her literary demons need curved horns askew and great leather wings that dwarf their cowardly little bodies. But it's a silly attempt, she decides, and she stops mid sentence.
1. volière & gratitude

**Volière  
**_situated on the crook of her neck, little flames fan the feathers of rebellion_

When sleep can't find her, Eto takes to the pages of the worn out journal. She consumes ink and the fledgeling ideas that dance at her fingertips, hoping to cure her boredom. And as intricate sprites and creatures skate upon the canvas of her mind, she makes it seem obvious that her literary demons need curved horns askew and great leather wings that dwarf their cowardly little bodies. It's a silly attempt, Eto decides, stopping mid sentence.

A vengeful god casts out her subjects.

The page is torn out with an inordinate amount of care and thrown into the feeble flames that are brief comfort against the frigid weather. Instead, still hungry and restless, she sets out into the night—the sound of her footsteps and humming drowned out by the trilling monotone of Tokyo's 24th ward.

By the time the poor thing has realized, Eto's talons have already torn clean through its body. The ghoul, a young bikaku, has nary the time to gasp before she separates head from spine. The entire process is nothing like her writing. Swift, coordinated movements shear generous chunks of flesh from bone as she greedily swallows mouthfuls of the tasteless meat. A deft flick of her wrist is all she needs to rip appendage from torso, and eventually nothing is left of her late night snack. She is a captivating force of nature, method illuminated by the lovely glow of the moon above.

And, for a few fleeting moments between moments, Eto Yoshimura feels not as a bird in a cage, but an author who has managed to rewrite some idiot's story. She laughs and laughs until her throat is dry and bile rises up to remind her of what she is.

**Gratitude  
**_on the hill overlooking the high school, their outlines mired in fallen autumn leaves, they come to an understanding—all three of them._

Taishi Fura is grateful. Grateful that he was the one to end the creature's life.

Yet he can't help but think back to _its_ words. "I hated them all," it says between a cacophony of coughs. "They were trash that were better off dead." As it lay there dying, blood spilling across the length of Yukimura ⅓, those words illicit a kaleidoscope of emotions for the young man. Confusion, surprise, despair. But the sharpest is always anger. His response is cold and laced with disdain.

"No matter how much you try, you'll never be a human. Because killing people just because they aren't useful to society—isn't humane..!"

He wants to grab the quinque behind him and cave the ghoul's skull in, but it makes the choice for him. In what seems like no time, something is impaled on the blade that he holds in trembling hands. Uruka Minami stands shakily and tumbles off the weapon. And with eyes welling in the same tears as his, she muses about simple things like school and exams.

Looking back on it, he thinks he finally understands _her_ words, if only a little bit. He, Minami, and even Arima were just hypocritical, naive children caught up in a long—_much too long_—war against murderers. Fura's lips purse up into a slight, sad smile. He doubts Arima cares, now nearly doubling over from the prospect that there could have ever been something between the stoic teenager and the girl. But he asks anyways.

"You knew the whole time, didn't you? About her, I mean."

Arima nods, and Fura props himself up against the grey case positioned next to him.

"Why didn't you do it? Was it for me?"

Arima pauses, for a moment, but nods again. The wind howls, as if to laugh at such a blatant lie, and a blanket of leaves settles onto Fura's makeshift seat.

"Thank you—

Taishi Fura is grateful that Arima let her live long enough.

—for not killing her."

Kishou Arima is grateful that he didn't have to.


	2. morning & mourning

**Morning  
**_a good excuse is all one needs_

Marude calls early this time, and when Kureo slinks down the stairs his wife is already preparing breakfast for three. She greets him and he her, all the while trying to keep the bundle of energy that is little Akira from violently scattering them both across the kitchen. "Maru called again", he manages, as he tustles with his unrelenting daughter. "Another whack-a-mole in the 24th."

"You know, we could sit this one out", Kasuka laughs in response. "The little miss is _very_ threatening; I'd hate to see her too angry at us."

Kureo takes in the way a rising sliver of sun sprinkles the room with spots of light and considers the offer. He's been an investigator for nearly his entire life—ghouls and quinques seemingly embedded into his very being. Akira stumbles over a table leg and faceplants into the rack that their blank white uniforms sleep on. Kasuka doesn't know whether to snicker or scream, so she sprints over to their daughter in an awkward combination of both. This—_this_ he's had for a sparse few years. But he'd be content with just this, he thinks, and promises himself _soon_.

**Mourning  
**_if you were there, or anybody for that matter, you'd have mistaken the scene as a madder red of roses in early autumn snowfall. _

She wakes to the chattering of voices. The fire next to her makeshift bed has long since burnt its course, and her old man is nowhere to be found. Eto's verdant hair is still stained and filthy from last week's escapade, but she cares little about presentability to the 24th's local band of orphans. She imagines herself out to be some sort of witch, terrorizing the local populace with plagues and curses galore. If Noroi were here he'd undoubtedly cringe at her theatrics and tell her to make some real friends. But she has her books and his stories, and that is enough.

They call out for her to play and spar for the broken bones used as some semblance of currency in the underground city. Ignoring their vaguely annoying existence, she contemplates her own. _I am more than a decade into the world_—_11, maybe 12 years?_ The young ghoul has grown stronger, stronger than she ever thought possible. _Things are coming along nicely. _There were days when Noroi could stop her from her weekly hunts, but not anymore. _Not anymore. _She is reckless, though Eto is but a child, so she figures it fine. And now, she is hungry for entertainment.

But not in broad daylight. Even she is not fearless enough to do so yet. Though naturally disobedient, she still hangs onto a sparse few of his warnings. Noroi has always cautioned her of forces beyond their control.

Yet doves are few and far between in the 24th ward.

And he is not here anyways.

It's the first time she has spread her new wings to the warmth of the sun and Eto feels absolutely wonderful. She smiles with effervescent pride at what she can only describe as a glimpse at genuine happiness. Before any more thought can be given, her left shoulder is run through by a pitch black brand. As she falls from the rooftop, she sees _them_ a few strides away from the foot of the building—three smiling, faceless men, clad in cloaks dyed obsidian. These are like no doves she has ever faced before. Fear takes over, and her blood runs cold in such a way that her right eye oscillates with an otherworldly miasma. She pulls into a hastily fashioned glide while her adversaries approach with ghoul-like speed. One, she manages to catch on the scraps of kagune that hang from her two left kakuhou. The second is skewered by her right, but not before striking a devastating blow that shears across her back, disabling the remaining pair of kakuhou on the functional side of her body. The landing breaks both her legs instantly.

Though fire runs scalding, hungry, and bright from her feet and across her torso, Eto knows not to scream. If she alerts any possible stragglers in the area, she is as good as dead. Painting the cracked concrete in a bright cherry hue, she moves into a hurried crawl and rolls to close a corner—only to come face to face with the third man, brandishing the same model of quinque embedded in her shoulder. She thinks this is it and begins to brace for the blow, cursing her own stupidity. Widened eyes trace the path of movement that starts a meter left and ends with her most important extremity lopped off.

The edge of the blade grazes her cheek, the weapon's trajectory shifted by a blow that knocks the black dove's smug countenance from its shoulders.

"Noroi", she breathes.

He picks her up without a word and begins to widen his stride into a full sprint. As she blinks in and out of consciousness, she remembers him apologizing and imploring her to _read_ the journal. When Eto wakes again, she is hidden away in some crook of an unknown building, the treasured book wrapped into her arms. She is healed—mostly, and while her muscles slowly knit themselves back together, the little girl crawls desperately to locate familiarity.

By the time she reaches her home, the child can't tell apart the smoldering, charred skeletons of her fellow ghouls and the bones they had once played with. In any other circumstance, Eto would have merely convinced herself to laugh at their plight, joking that in death they'd be as rich as can be. But her mind is occupied by thoughts that race faster than her legs can carry her, and she stumbles across the ruins.

When she finds him, Eto cries for the first time in what feels like years. In mere seconds, they are both covered in a thin sheet of ashes that sticks and melds with the warm rivulets of tears that decorate her bloodied face. They are as slowly snaking streams, running their paths through crimson flowers too stubborn to wilt.

He is buried before she has time to finish mourning.

Eto encounters a group of doves as she makes her escape through one of the 24th's underground passageways. Reason's soft lullabies are ignored. Her own injuries' numbing evocations are ignored. Their weapons' singing edges are ignored. When a lone dove stands to cover the investigators' retreat, they both ignore the screams of the gaunt, pale haired man who is forced away from her side. Unable to chase after their dwindling figures, Eto violently scatters the blonde woman across the mouth of the tunnel.

She walks slowly, pained not by the variable litany of weapons protruding from her side, but in knowing that she has not changed at all. Her apologies to a dead man feel empty and useless. Revenge is equally so.


	3. dance

**Footsteps  
**_their rhythm moves to the tune of a soft melody_

It wasn't as if he had meant to make them cry. Arata was intent on telling Touka and Ayato a bedtime story worthy of their fanciful imaginations. Alas, his tale about the princess on the moon reached too far above their little heads and only served to rile them up.

"But why?" Ayato started sniffling first. "Why did she have go? She should have stayed with them no matter what—I would have!"

"Because she had to stupid! Not that Ayato would ever understand, right Dad?"

Touka's retort is less than ideal and Arata's worst fears seem to creep past the edges of his eyes in a heartbeat. Ayato jumps his sister and by the time he has separated them, they've accessorized each other in a pattern of bruises. Ayato is bawling while his sister is trying to tough out the results of a hard won scuffle. As Arata checks up on them both, she beams pridefully at another victory under her belt. Of course, her smile is interspliced with brief winces and tears as her father tries his best to treat the two aching children. Arata sighs and accepts that they'll have to settle down eventually.

As he attempts to put them to sleep a second time he decides to just hum a little song. His voice is soft like a breeze in one's hair, yet carries strong across their little room above the paint shop. In no time, they are both bundled up and exploring the realms of dream, the events of the hour before long forgotten.

"Gah, so coldddd. It's so early for sno—"

When Hikari enters she can't help but stop and smile at her husband kneeling as a light melody rolls from his throat. But she's annoyed that she doesn't recognize the tune, so she puts her lips to his and hums along.

It's colder in the evenings, but they decide to take their performance outside. Like well oiled pieces in clockwork, her movements rush to match his and vice versa, all the while leaning close to one another, locked in perpetual embrace. And in such a courtship, this fight of theirs, both are more than happy to concede to the other.


End file.
